A room of one's own

I wrote this poem when I was very fortunate to be given a space to write for a week in the glorious Chalkwell Hall, Southend-on-Sea, which has been lovingly renovated by Metal Culture. For more information visit www.metalculture.com.

Bare feet on floorboards,
a room of one’s own.
I look out and glimpse the estuary,
all blue and brown and glitter lines
peppered with coloured boats and
half-butterfly windsurfers.
I hear peacock cries,
a dog barking,
the click and crack of
expanding plastic guttering
in the heat.
I hear the tap of my keyboard,
the stirring of tea,
and rustle of papers on the breeze.
I watch the solar panels lie like teenagers
sunbathing on the roof,
catching rays, faces up to the sun.
There is peace
and real quiet
and a coolness from
exposed plaster walls.
Flies buzz around compost towers,
and the trees that envelope the house
whisper and sigh.
I strain to hear ghosts of the past
padding on floors
and in the skirting boards,
telling me eighteenth century secrets.
The sleek Aga stands
head of the house,
sash windows a love-letter
to the past.
Turbines sleekly coil,
winking out to sea;
a reconstructed past,
a new life for old walls,
a labour of love.